


no greater love

by fannishliss



Series: Vatican Cameos [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Castiel is kind of an archangel, M/M, post s9, the Pope seems like a very nice guy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-31
Updated: 2014-07-31
Packaged: 2018-02-11 05:23:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2055261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fannishliss/pseuds/fannishliss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Team Free Will meet the Pope!</p>
            </blockquote>





	no greater love

**title: no greater love**  
author: [](http://fannishliss.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://fannishliss.livejournal.com/)**fannishliss**  
pairing: Sam/Dean (keeping it clean)  
rating: PG13 for language  
spoilers: none; almost certainly au for s10  
[ **series:  Vatican Cameos**](http://fannishliss.livejournal.com/tag/vatican%20cameos)

Summary: Team Free Will meet the Pope!

For [](http://jpgr.livejournal.com/profile)[**jpgr**](http://jpgr.livejournal.com/), who [wanted to know more](http://fannishliss.livejournal.com/199373.html?thread=1802701#t1802701) about how this deal with the Pope came about.

Disclaimer: The Bishop of Rome seems like a fantastic guy.  No disrespect whatsoever is intended, and this story is obviously completely imaginary.

=====  
  
The Holy Father was a humble man, but practical. He knelt in prayer, supplicating to God for assistance, but also, considering his options.

All over the world, demons were raging out of control. Worse, the priests trained to exorcise demons were failing, their time-honored rituals no longer effective in the twenty-first century, post-post-Apocalypse.  Something had to be done.

As his devotions came to a close, he felt no nearer to a solution.   His exorcists were men of great faith, yet they were powerless against the new magicks of these demons. Still, it was not within the purview of the Holy See to recommend that priests begin to study magic, even to fight fire with fire.

“There may be another option,” a gruff voice intoned.

Startled, the Holy Father almost fell over, but rose as quickly as his aging bones would allow.

There, in his most private closet, stood a stranger.  His tie was crooked and his trench coat had seen better days.  But his blue eyes were bright, though full of concern, and his expression was earnest and well-meaning.

“Can I help you, my son?” the pontiff said, to cover his confusion.

“Perhaps we can help one another,” the stranger said.  “But I suppose I should observe the proper decorum.  Ahem.  Ahem.” The stranger cleared his throat ostentatiously and stood a little taller.

“Hail, most worthy old man.  Do not be afraid, for behold, I bring you reasonably good tidings, which shall be a relief, both to you and to anybody else paying attention.  For lo, in these days, the brothers Winchester walk the earth, mighty men of renown, friends of Angels, drinking buddies of Demons, and no strangers to the crawling things that seep from the more unpleasant realms.  I am Castiel, Angel of the Lord, and I can introduce you to Sam and Dean Winchester, Demon wranglers extraordinaire.”

The Pope shook his head. He didn't understand what the young man was trying to say, garbled New Testament quotations notwithstanding.  And he knew that his bodyguards, who already found their jobs overly taxing, would pull out their hair if he did not press the panic button immediately.

"I'm sorry, my son, but I think you should go out the way you came in," the Pope said.

"Very well," the man frowned, and with a sound like the flapping of vast wings, he was gone.

The old man blinked and rubbed his eyes.  Had the Lord sent a vision? Had he drunk a bit too much port wine after supper? Was he asleep already -- had the morning come before he realized it?

The room around him echoed in its solidity.  Same heavy furnishings, same heavy carpeting -- the most simplicity he could convince the Vatican bureaucracy to allow him.

He stared at his kneeler.  He had been kneeling, at prayer, when the worried looking young man had appeared -- and then had disappeared right before his eyes.  Strange.  Or, possibly -- miraculous?

Had he, unawares, failed to entertain an Angel?

On a whim, he stepped over to his computer, and typed in "Cassiel." Wikipedia informed him that Cassiel was an angel of solitude and tears, and that he watched over humanity, especially over the deaths of kings.  It was also rumored that he was perhaps an archangel.

Would an archangel wear such a crooked tie, such an ill-fitting coat?

He clicked on an alternate spelling -- Castiel.  Not as much information came up, and what did come up seemed even less reliable -- the Angel of Thursday, an Angel of new beginnings.

"Cassiel -- please come back--  or Castiel? I didn't quite hear you," the Pope called out into the vacant room.

Just as the old man began to laugh sheepishly at his own gullibility, there was the strange flapping sound, a feeling of pressure, and a slight breeze carrying with it the faint scent of a thunderstorm.

The rumpled man with the intense blue gaze was back, and behind him stood two very large, very dangerous looking men.  The one on the left was simply enormous. He had slightly dirty longish brown hair, and premature lines of worry etched into his face.   The one on the right, while not quite as huge, held himself belligerently, his lips curled almost in a snarl.  And great God in Heaven, what was wrong with his eyes? He quickly lowered his chin, down and to the right, veiling his eyes with darkly-lashed lids before the Pope could see them well.

The old man felt his heartbeat spike.  He had lived through the Disappearances.  He had discerned, to his modest abilities, how to lead a people through a time of terror and instability.  He knew what it felt like to face personal threat.  The smaller, trench-coated man stood like a wall, arms held slightly out, palms open to the two men behind him.  His stance was protective -- but of whom? The small, aged Bishop of Rome -- or the two big bruisers at his back, men like those he'd had to escort out of bars in his youth?

"Please," the man said in his gruff tones, his blue eyes wide and pleading, "if we could speak calmly, just for a moment --"

"Cas, get us the fuck out of here!" the angrier one barked.

"Dean, language!" the taller one hissed. "I'm sorry, my brother isn't feeling--"

"I'll try this again.  'The Direct Approach,'" the gruff man said, making quotation marks in the air with his fingers. "Your Eminence, this is Sam and Dean Winchester.  Sam, Dean, the Bishop of Rome, Primate of Italy, Servant of the servants of God."

"Oh my god, Cas -- the Pope?" the taller one -- Sam -- gasped, going pale.

"Cas -- I mean it, I can't be here -- I can't -- "  the other one-- Dean-- growled between clenched teeth.

Adrenaline sharp in his veins made the scene stand out in supernatural clarity.  He saw the bigger man's, Sam's, scarred hands, the tenderness with which he reached for his brother, Dean; the restrained strength as he gently pulled the other man against him, grounding him against his own body.  The old man had seen it before -- the shaking body of a soldier, pushed far past his limits time after time, until all he could rely upon was the fellow fighter he'd sworn to die protecting, and vice versa.  No greater love hath any man, than this -- that he would die for his friend.  The Pope shook his head in compassionate sorrow.

He lifted his hands in blessing toward the anxious group of three who'd invaded his private chambers.

"Please, my children -- this is a house of peace.  No harm will come to you in this place."

Dean angrily barked a harsh laugh.  "Ha!  Don't make promises you can't keep, hey, padre?"

"Sh, Dean," Sam said, his hands constantly gentling his brother, pulling him closer into a sphere of love that almost seemed visible to the naked eye.

"It burns, Sammy, it hurts so bad," Dean whimpered.

"I'm sorry, Dean, we'll try to make this quick," the apparent Angel said.  "Your Eminence, Sam and Dean can help you. If you are aware of recent attempts to bring about the End of Days, you should know that these two men have saved the world more than once through great feats of faith and daring.  They are Hunters, and Men of Letters.  More importantly, they know how to handle Demons."

"Exorcists?" the Pope asked.  They certainly didn't look like priests.

"Yes -- " the big one, Sam, answered.  "But what we want to do, is train people to cure them."

"Cure the possessed?" the Pope asked.  "Surely the cure is exorcism?"

"No -- cure the Demons," Sam said earnestly.

"You can do this?" he asked. "Is it possible for damned souls to find salvation?"

Dean groaned in Sam's arms, and Sam's big hand gently stroked his back.  "Yes," he said, with a certainty Dean didn't seem to share.

"Yes," Cas repeated, his blue eyes fairly blazing with fire. "On behalf of Heaven, I vouch for these men."

The old man chuckled, just a little.  "I'm sorry to doubt the evidence before me -- the way you brought your friends so easily into my chambers.  But have you any proof that you are from Heaven?  What if you are from -- the other place?"

Dean barked with laughter again, and the sound was almost a sob.  Sam held him tighter.

"May I touch you?" Castiel said, holding up two fingers as if in benediction.

"Yes," the old man said.  He did not shy away from the touch of sinners, and tried with God's help to treat every human being as a saint.

He never felt the touch.  A terrible barrage of images flooded his brain, images of stunning violence, so much struggle, so much pain, and through it all, these two brothers had somehow prevailed, hope against hope --against the arrayed might of Heaven, Hell, and Purgatory -- against demons, Angels and Archangels -- somehow these men had born the heavy touch of the Lord's fateful hand.

The Angel stepped back and the Pope bowed his head.  "Thank you," he said.

The Angel crooked his head to the side, his unblinking eyes crinkled in puzzlement.

"No," the Pope said. "All of you.  I'm sorry for all you have suffered.  I pray that your lot may be easier.  The resources of the Vatican are at your disposal.  Please, let me know whatever I can do to help you continue in this blessed endeavor."

A brightening light of hope seemed to cross Sam's face.  The worry and tension so deep in every line faded back, and he looked so much younger the old man's heart almost broke.

"Don't cream your pants, geek," Dean's muffled voice said.

"Dean, shut up!" Sam said, but his smile was like the sun.  He dropped a kiss on top of Dean's head, holding him even tighter.

"Thank you, Your Holiness," the Angel said.  "I can't make any promises, but I hope you won't regret this."

The Pontiff looked at the Angel Castiel, an Angel who had fallen because of compassion and his struggle to discern the righteous path through a mire of uncertainty.

"Please, Castiel, call me Jorge. Perhaps sometime, you'd like to share a coffee and chat?"

"Yes, I'd like that very much," the weary Angel smiled.

The Pope extended his hand, and the novice Archangel let down his guard and shook.

The brothers held on to each other, breathing in a moment of peace, the calm before yet another war to come.


End file.
